


Origins

by Lenore



Category: Minority Report (TV 2015)
Genre: Backstory, Blue Lagoon Fiddler's Neck style, First Time, Incest, M/M, Protectiveness, Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 14:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5131067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur will never let anyone hurt his brother, bourbon doesn't make anyone smart, and everyone on Fiddler's Neck has something to hide: OR a story of beginnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origins

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this story before Fiddler's Neck, which jossed it a bit. The show seems to break its own rules about what pre-cogs can see, though, so I have no regrets. Also, a warning: there's non-explicit mention of sexual abuse in a school setting that doesn't involve any of the canon characters. And finally, big thanks to Stepquietly for talking this idea through with me!

A water stain covers half the bedroom ceiling, a vaguely boot-shaped memento of last winter when snow stayed piled on the roof so long they needed every bowl, bucket and empty milk carton in the house to catch all the leaks. Arthur can't clearly make out the dark blot in the pre-dawn dimness, but he knows it's there, a persistent testament to everything that's wrong with this island of misfit people. 

From downstairs, he can hear the faint ticking of the rooster clock that Agatha paid actual money for. "It's an antique," she says whenever Arthur eyes it dubiously. But it isn't the ticking that's keeping him awake. Sometimes he can ignore the steady hum in his head, the distant chatter of names, addresses, facts, endless data, data, data, but now is not one of those times. 

His restlessness makes him even more aware than usual of the low-grade, persistent stink of the island. Agatha insists it's all in Arthur's imagination, but he's smelled it since they first got here: fetid and damp, seeping in past the windows and beneath the doors, getting everywhere, clinging to everything. He hates this place almost as much as the milk bath.

He can just make out Dash in the other bed, turned on his side and curled tightly in on himself, sleeping peacefully. There's an empty room down the hall with an unused wardrobe standing against one wall and cobwebs overtaking the corners. They tried staying in separate rooms the first night they were here. Sometime in the bleak hours, Arthur gave up and went to retrieve his brother. Together, they'd dragged Dash's bed into this room where it belonged. Dash has slept here ever since.

The distant hum in Arthur's head suddenly crackles and clears. A signal comes blaring through: _Phillip A. Elbert 42 years old 919 Chamberford Drive married 5/12/2044 wife Sharon 22 stab wounds to her abdomen chest neck_. On cue Dash starts to toss and turn and, finally, all-out thrash. He whimpers, lets out a little gasp, and falls silent, his shoulders working with the effort to keep from crying out. The noise in Arthur's head cranks up to a higher volume, flooding him with details, a stream of everything he'd rather not know about wife-killer Phillip A. Elbert. He lets out his breath, squints against the headache that's building behind his eyes, and slides out from beneath the covers.

In the two years they've been here, Arthur has broadened through the shoulders. Dash has grown so much taller. They barely fit in the same bed anymore, and Arthur has to press close to keep from falling out. He slips an arm around Dash's waist. At first Dash flinches away, the way he does when the afterimage of a vision is still too vivid, but eventually he lets out a shaky breath, almost a sob, and relaxes into Arthur's hold. When Arthur feels Dash's breathing slow, deepen, he shuts his eyes. His head is blessedly quiet.

* * *

Dash is already up when Arthur wakes again, and the chatter is back, a nagging distraction. He flops onto his stomach, closes his eyes more tightly, and spends maybe two minutes determinedly trying to go back to sleep before the scent of coffee drifts into the room like a recrimination. Agatha has ideas about breakfast being the most important meal of the day. Arthur gives up on sleep. 

Before heading downstairs, he fishes out the notebook he keeps hidden beneath his mattress and writes down everything he knows about Phillip A. Elbert, every last banal, appalling detail. The bored-looking government psychologist Arthur met with a handful of times to prepare for life post milk bath had recommended keeping a journal. _It'll help you process the information you're pulling in, so you can let it go_. Arthur has taken that advice, although he's found a much more profitable use for writing things down. 

In the kitchen, Dash is already bent over a plate of eggs. He looks hollow-eyed, the way he always does after one of the more intense visions, but his hand doesn't shake as he mechanically moves his fork from plate to mouth. There have been worse aftermaths. 

Arthur heads single-mindedly for the coffee pot, in need of caffeine after another wakeful night. Agatha dishes up a plate of eggs and hands it to him. Here's another thing she believes in: the steadying effect of a regular schedule with set meal times. Of the three of them, she's the one who has truly embraced life on the island, grabbed onto it with both hands as if it's a life preserver that will keep them afloat. Domesticity is her buffer against the casual atrocities that thread secondhand through their daily existence. Arthur won't be surprised if he comes home some day to find her canning vegetables and tatting lace doilies. 

"We'll do the next physics unit this morning," she declares once they're all gathered at the table. "And spend time this afternoon reading the first ten chapters of _Oliver Twist_."

Some government sys admin had the foresight to head off problems over truancy by filing homeschooling paperwork for Arthur and Dash. Unfortunately, Agatha has taken that to heart, determined they will get an education if she has to strong-arm them into it. Whenever Arthur sabotages the virtual classroom program, she calmly fixes it and assigns them twice as much homework. 

"I need to pick up that salve for the horses this morning," Arthur reminds her, in the code they use in front of Dash.

Agatha turns her glance on him, her expression opaque as ever. "When you get back then."

Dash looks almost comically confused. Normally Agatha doesn't brook any excuse for missing lessons. And since when has Arthur been interested in helping with the horses? Arthur plows through the rest of his breakfast and heads out before Dash can start asking questions. 

Escaping quantum mechanics should feel like freedom, but there's no such thing on a five-square-mile piece of nowhere hemmed in on every side by flat, gray water. The road leading into what passes for town is rutted and unpaved, little more than tire tracks worn into the ground. The gravel crunches beneath Arthur's feet, and the damp, rotting stink of the place coils all around him. 

Main Street consists of a half dozen stores that time has passed by, the displays in the front windows long since faded and covered in dust. A bar stands on one corner, where grim-faced men go to sit in silence, staring into their glasses of whiskey as if they'll find answers there. In the barracks-shaped building at the end of the block, you can buy live bait or a whole armory full of weapons in the back room if you know the pass code. The government chose to hide them in this place for a reason. Everyone here has some secret to protect. 

Arthur skirts the edge of town and takes the familiar path down to the waterfront. A tumbledown shack slumps next to the dock, the unremarkable hub of criminal activity on the island. When they were first set free, none of them had any idea how to take care of themselves, and there was no one to ask for help. It wasn't long before they'd used up the meager balance of credits that had been their only compensation for their stolen childhoods. Sheer desperation drove Arthur to turn his notebook into a means of survival.

"You bring it?" Jameson cuts to the chase as Arthur steps through the door. He's a short, square-jawed block of a man with an old knife wound to one cheek, the story of his life in three inches of scar tissue. 

Arthur hands over the memory stick with five meticulously detailed life histories. Jameson will add the necessary forged documents and sell the false identities for ten times what he's paying Arthur. As soon as Arthur has perfected his own forgery skills, there will be no more need for a middleman, a fact he and Jameson are both well aware of. 

"Thorough, as always," Jameson says with a satisfied nod after he's examined the files. He swipes at his pad, transferring the agreed upon credits, creating a false trail that will make it appear as if the money is for the sale of horses. On paper at least, Agatha's business is a booming success. 

For a criminal, Jameson is surprisingly honest. He's never tried to shortchange Arthur on the price. Never asked any questions, not even that first time when Arthur came barreling in without an introduction, barely fifteen years old, overeager to prove the value of what he had to sell. The only thing Jameson concerns himself with is making a profit. If Arthur were the type to have a role model, this man would be it. 

When he gets home, he expects the usual approving nod from Agatha. _Don't tell Dash_ , that was all she'd said the first time Arthur turned up with more credits than he could possibly explain. He's not sure why they've settled into this collusion of silence. Maybe it's because Dash is too idealistic to approve. Or because he's the only one of them with any innocence left, and neither Arthur or Agatha wants to be the one who destroys it. 

What Arthur finds instead is a stranger planted on their living room sofa. A teapot and cookie plate sit on the coffee table, as if hospitality is something they have to offer. Agatha sips primly at her tea. Dash looks relieved to see Arthur. 

"This is Mr. Lewis, the principal from the local high school," Agatha says calmly. 

"I get to meet the whole family after all." The man rises to his feet and holds out his hand to shake Arthur's. 

He looks like every other middle-aged man on the island with his gut-strained plaid shirt and his carefully arranged comb-over. There's no reason for Arthur to despise him on sight, but he does just the same. He shoots a glance at Agatha, who answers his unspoken question. "Mr. Lewis has come to discuss our homeschooling arrangement."

The man resettles on the sofa, stretching his arm along the back of the cushions. His hand comes very close to brushing Dash's shoulders, and that near bit of contact doesn't seem accidental. Arthur instinctively plunks down onto the arm of the sofa, leaning protectively into his brother's space. 

"Is something wrong?" Arthur asks. 

"Not a bit," Lewis says, reassuringly. "I just like to get to know all the families on the island. And I admit I do have an ulterior motive for stopping by. I've seen you boys around town and thought: I sure would love to have them enrolled at school."

"Why?" Arthur asks, challenging. "What can we learn there that we're not already learning here?"

Lewis flashes a patronizing smile. "No doubt your sister does a fine job. But there's more to an education than simply—"

The rest of the man's blather fades into white noise as data breaks across Arthur's thoughts: _Daniel Anderson Steven Simons Hunter Collins Matty Drummond Connor Nixon_. On and on, a parade of victims long into the future and far into the past. 

"What about sports?" Lewis slides his gaze over Arthur before settling it on Dash, an acquisitive gleam in his eyes. "You play baseball? I coach varsity. If you're interested in going out for the team, I'd be happy to work with you one-on-one."

Dash stares in confusion, his eyes wide and blinking, his lips bitten pink. Still so innocent despite everything, and Arthur doesn't need to be a pre-cog to know what the perv sitting in their living room wants to do to his little brother. His hands curl into fists. 

Agatha rises smoothly from her chair. "We appreciate your stopping by, Mr. Lewis. But homeschooling works very well for us."

Lewis takes the hint and follows Agatha to the door. "I respect your decision, but Dash and Arthur will always be welcome if you change your mind."

She shuts the door firmly behind the man, and it's just in time because Dash has gone pale, has started to shake. Arthur presses closer, shoulder-to-shoulder, trying to offer comfort. 

"God," Dash says when the vision has passed, his voice wobbly and strained. "We have to—"

"No," Agatha says sharply. "We don't have to. And we can't afford to."

Dash's expression takes a mutinous turn, but he doesn't actually argue. As kids, before the milk bath, Agatha was their bossy big sister, always calling the shots, and they've slipped back into those roles since they've been free. 

The rest of the day they spend on physics and literature because it's going to take more than a visit from the local pedophilic school official to derail Agatha's lesson plan. Neither Arthur or Dash manages much in the way of concentration. Dinner passes in near silence, and as soon as they've finished cleaning up, Arthur goes up to his room to record everything he knows about Principal Lewis. 

He's always agreed with Agatha: they can't risk revealing who they are by getting involved, and they don't owe anyone anything, not after what they've been through. So it makes no sense that he just gets angrier and angrier as he writes down the names of Lewis' victims and the details of his crimes. Somehow Dash's name keeps slipping into the loop in Arthur's head, although he wasn't—Arthur would never let anyone hurt his brother. 

"Arthur," Dash says quietly, watching intently from the other bed. "Don't you think we should—"

Arthur records the last bit of information and snaps the notebook shut. "You heard what Agatha said." 

"But—"

"Just go to bed."

Of course, Arthur can't sleep once they've turned out the light. The usual roar in his head is compounded by the playback of names, all the boys Lewis has already preyed on and the ones he'll target in the future. A memory splashes up, the glinting, greedy-eyed way he'd stared at Dash. Something tightens in Arthur's gut, a protectiveness so fierce it leaves him weak, because Dash is his other half. Because Dash is _his_. 

He looks over at his brother who is sleeping the innocent sleep of children, one hand tucked beneath his chin, so open, so trusting. Arthur still agrees with Agatha, but he will always protect what's his, and there are other ways to deal with problems than by going to the authorities.

* * *

If Arthur sleeps at all, it's light and fitful, and he's awake again in time to see dawn break mottled and pale across the horizon. He slips out of the room without waking Dash and creeps down the stairs, carrying his shoes and avoiding the squeaky tread in the hopes that Agatha won't hear him. He's so intent on sneaking that he nearly jumps out of his skin when he finds her standing at the sink, staring out the window at the hazy landscape. 

"You should be careful," she says, calm as ever. "We can't know how it will affect us."

Arthur gives a nod. He has every intention of being careful and no intention of being stopped. 

The little strip of Main Street is just coming awake, shop owners turning on the lights, getting ready for the day ahead. The unmarked little hole in the wall that houses the off-channel communications hub is always open. For enough credits, you can send a message that's perfectly anonymous and utterly untraceable.

Principal Lewis, better known as Stan Jones, has skipped from one false identity to the next, leaving in his wake a mountain of outstanding warrants. He's been clever at hiding his tracks—clever enough to pass the school board's background check—but Arthur knows it all, every detail, including the names and contact information of the fathers who are the most likely to take justice into their own hands. A few strategically placed anonymous calls passing along Principal Lewis' whereabouts, and it's only a matter of time before someone takes care of the problem. 

The clerk at the desk can't be much older than Arthur, but he has the same world-weary air. Working at a place like this, no doubt he's seen it all. He nudges the pad toward Arthur to transfer the credits. Arthur is about to swipe to complete the transaction when a stream of information breaks through, a string of criminal statutes: _120.70 luring a child, 130.53 persistent sexual abuse, 130.96 predatory sexual assault against a child_...

It's a series of crimes that's all too familiar. 

"Fuck," Arthur says under his breath.

The clerk doesn't blink as Arthur drops the pad and tears out of there. Outside he can hear the distant screech of tires, what sounds like an entire caravan of vehicles. That would be the Guard, Arthur guesses, going to round up Principal Lewis to turn him over to the off-island authorities. Dash stands on the sidewalk, shuffling his feet awkwardly, looking vaguely apologetic. 

"What did you do?" Arthur demands.

Dash's expression turns mulish. "I couldn't let you just—calling the Guard was the right thing to do. He can't hurt anyone else now, and you won't—"

_Have blood on your hands_. Dash doesn't need to finish that sentence for Arthur to know. 

Arthur lowers his voice. "We all made a promise. You can't just go off on your own and put us at risk."

Dash tightens his jaw. "Yeah? And what were you doing? Also, you're not the only one who knows how to make an anonymous call, Arthur."

There's an angry buzz building in Arthur's head, and the fact that Dash is right just makes it worse. 

"How did you even know?" Dash sees the crime; Arthur gets the details. That's the way it works. The only way Dash could know about the outstanding warrants and all the aliases—he must have read Arthur's notebook.

Dash ducks his head sheepishly, knowing he's busted. "Let's just go home, okay?"

That's the last thing Arthur wants to do. He feels like he'll vibrate out of his skin if he doesn't—he doesn't even know what. His gaze lands on the battered liquor store across the street. That's one answer. 

"Hey, wait," Dash says, trotting to keep up. 

The bored-looking man behind the counter barely spares them a glance as they roam the dusty aisles. For a moment when Arthur plunks down a bottle of bourbon onto the counter, the clerk hesitates as if he might ask for ID, but finally he just shrugs, apparently deciding underage drinkers aren't his problem. 

"Where are we going?" Dash asks, sticking close as Arthur heads out of town. "Do you really think you should drink that stuff?"

Probably not, but Arthur hefts the brown paper bag closer and doesn't answer. Distantly he recognizes that it makes no sense to be as angry as he is. Lewis got what was coming to him. Why does it matter that Arthur wasn't the one to bring him down? He doesn't know. It just does. And now he needs some way to work off the frustrated desire for vengeance. 

There's a copse of trees—not far off the road but still private—where Arthur goes sometimes when he needs to practice his forging. He strikes off in that direction, and Dash follows doggedly. Pine needles form a carpet beneath the branches, and Arthur sits, unscrews the cap. The first swallow burns all the way down, and only pride keeps him from sputtering and coughing. Those grim-faced men who slump on their barstools all day long seem even more desperate now that he's tasted their consolation. 

"Arthur," Dash says, low and urgent. "Don't be mad. I swear I didn't do anything that can be traced back to us."

The whiskey hasn't quieted the noise in Arthur's head—just made it garbled—and he's in no mood for conversation. He pushes the bottle at Dash. "Drink or go home."

Dash sniffs at the open bottle, his nose wrinkling. Arthur rolls his eyes and reaches to take it back, and that spurs Dash on. He forces down a gingerly sip, makes a face, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "That's gross."

Arthur doesn't disagree, but the hot simmer of anger hasn't cooled yet, and drinking gives him something to do. They pass the bottle back and forth in silence. There's a slurred riot breaking out in Arthur's head, the chaos of half-received information. Possibly whiskey was not the best idea he's ever had.

Dash's eyes have gone bright and a little glassy. He leans in close. "I know what he was thinking." His cheeks, already pink, turn even pinker. "But it's not like—he didn't hurt me, Arthur." 

He could have, though. That's the problem, the reason why rage still shimmers in Arthur's blood. For most of his life, nothing has been in his control, and Principal Lewis was finally it, the last straw. No stranger is going to walk into Arthur's house and look at his brother as if he's something to take and use and throw away, not without Arthur making him pay for it. Except the Guard got there first, and now Arthur is left with this impotent fury, this unresolved need to strike back, the taste for violence amplified by the bourbon hammering his bloodstream. 

"Arthur," Dash says, an earnest whisper, and he lays a hand on Arthur's arm. 

Every muscle in Arthur's body is tensed for action, anger coiled in the pit of his stomach, and Dash's touch makes him want to react, do something physical and extreme. He'd never hurt his brother, though, and that leaves him with his hand twisted in Dash's shirt and nowhere to go from there. 

Dash doesn't hesitate. He scoots closer, winds his arms around Arthur's waist, and refuses to be budged. The urge toward violence hasn't disappeared, but it's only instinct for Arthur to hug his brother back. Dash has grown so fast, several inches in just the past few months, that his body is gangling, almost painfully thin, but when Arthur slides his hands over Dash's back, he feels solid. Strong. Arthur presses his face against Dash's shoulder and breathes in his scent, fabric softener and flannel and boy, deeply familiar. Arthur holds onto him fiercely, the need for revenge transmuting into the desire to never let his brother go. 

Dash's voice is barely a whisper. "Arthur." He presses his lips to Arthur's neck, his breath warm and humid on Arthur's skin. 

Arthur freezes, because his head is so fuzzy, and this can't be happening. It has to be his imagination. Wrong, perfect. But Dash does it again, kisses Arthur's neck eagerly, open mouthed, making Arthur shiver. The fact that Arthur's never had sex doesn't stop him from picturing exactly what he wants from his brother. The fact that this isn't so very different from what Principal Lewis wanted makes him jerk away.

"No." Dash grabs onto his arm and won't let go. "It's not like that and—" He flushes hotly. "We do. I saw it." He bites his lip, and his voice drops lower. "And I want to. Arthur, I want—"

Dash's eyes are too bright, his cheeks hot and flushed from the alcohol, and Arthur's thoughts are muddled, data distantly fizzing in and out. There's no way he should cup Dash's jaw in his hand and kiss his mouth. But bourbon doesn't make anyone smart. 

Dash gasps, a surprised, pleased sound, and he scrabbles at Arthur's shoulders as if he wants to climb inside Arthur's skin. Arthur is already hard, and the thought of them being inseparably close, the way they're meant to be, makes him ache for it. 

No one would ever mistake Arthur for innocent, but he's no less a virgin than his brother, his only experience his own hand in the middle of the night when he hopes no one else is awake. Their kisses are fumbling, spitty, and Arthur can't get enough. He's operating purely on instinct when he topples Dash onto his back and climbs on top of him. The bottle of bourbon goes flying, spilling onto the ground, as they grope and flail, kissing frantically and rubbing against each other. 

Dash grapples at Arthur's shoulders, clinging with all his strength, as if he's still half afraid that Arthur will change his mind. There's no chance of that, and Arthur bites down hard on Dash's neck, laying claim to him, desperately pushing their hips together. The inside of Arthur's head is so cloudy, and yet one thing is absolutely clear: Dash is his. 

A little whimper spills out of Dash, and he bucks up, dragging the hot, hard ridge of his dick against Arthur's thigh. There's a dull ache in the pit of Arthur's stomach, and he ruts against Dash, driven by the need to get closer, to touch his brother everywhere. It surprises him to realize that the white noise in his head has gone quiet. All he can hear now are the breathy, demanding sounds Dash is making. It's as if nothing exists but them, the boundaries blurring, the two of them merging until there's nothing separate anymore, not their thoughts or their skin or their wills. 

When Arthur comes, he stutters to a stop and squeezes his eyes tightly shut. Dash gasps and shakes and goes still. Arthur rolls off, and they lie next to each other, panting. Arthur's underwear clings to his skin, unpleasantly damp and sticky. His head has cleared enough to consider that maybe he really shouldn't have had semi-drunken sex with his little brother. He remembers Agatha's warning and wonders if this was what she actually meant. _We can't know how it will affect us._ Fuck. 

"Let's get back," he says, not able to look Dash in the eye. 

They don't talk on the way home, not for lack of Dash trying. Arthur keeps his head down and walks purposefully. What is there to say? If he could pin it all on the bourbon, that would be something, but when he looks back on his reaction to Principal Lewis, he can see now that there was as much jealousy and possessiveness wrapped up in it as brotherly protectiveness. 

At the house, they find Agatha out by the barn working with the horses. It's a fair bet she knows what they've done, but her expression is as composed as ever when she tells them, "You can get started on the next history lesson. I'll come inside in a few minutes."

"Arthur," Dash says as soon as they're through the door, grabbing him by the arm.

Just that simple touch lights up Arthur's body, makes him feel too warm in the pit of his stomach. The urge to kiss Dash, to put his hands and mouth all over him hasn't gone away, not even a little bit. 

Arthur pulls away and swipes the view screen to bring up the virtual classroom, relieved for once to focus on the dusty trivia of yesteryear. 

Dash bides his time, waits until they're alone in their room that night, until after they've turned out the lights and Arthur's a captive audience, to bring it up again. "I'm not sorry. It wasn't the bourbon. We both wanted it."

Arthur tightens his jaw and tries not to listen. Nothing about their lives has ever been normal, but having sex with his little brother, wanting to do it again even now, takes not-normal to a whole new level. 

"It's going to happen again," Dash says, soft and very certain. 

A stream of information floods Arthur's head: dates, locations, enough details about sex acts to make even him blush. The next time will be tomorrow afternoon, the abandoned old fishing cabin, Dash and Arthur both finding out what Arthur can do with his mouth. He closes his eyes, and dates keep unreeling, stretching far into the future, maybe even for the rest of their lives. 

"Goodnight, Arthur," comes softly from the other bed. 

Nothing about them has ever been normal, and in this one regard at least, Arthur can't bring himself to regret it. 

"Goodnight, Dash."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * A [Restricted Work] by [Podcath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podcath/pseuds/Podcath) Log in to view. 




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